Nosocomial Infection
by BerryCoffeeCake
Summary: A story about adaptability. Shredder's criminal enterprise has expanded in ways over the years no one ever thought it would. The boys, older now, wrestle both their feelings about their lifestyle and the ever growing distance between them and their old friends. Time goes on but things rarely stay the same. Especially in a city with so many things to distract.
1. Minnie

Minnie

She sat up in bed slowly straining to hear past the barrier of her bedroom door. There were no heavy, shuffling footsteps, no clanging of kitchen utensils. The staged sitcom laughter she was used to hearing from the living room was non-existent. Was he in there? Was he sleeping? Or had he gone out? She prayed for the latter as she planted her feet on the floor and sat for a few minutes counting the lines in the aged wood.

Sour. Something smelled sour. What was it this time? Dirty laundry? Old food left somewhere it wasn't supposed to be? A little grouping of roaches scuttled their way out from under a pile of clothes in front of her and she immediately looked away, shivering, toes curling. Everything about this place was disgusting. Everything about _him _was disgusting.

Minnie stood up and made her way over to the door, doing her best to not notice the thick layer of grit on the floor. Cracking it open she peeped out into the dim hallway. It was atrocious as usual with just as many piles of clothes as in the bedroom intermingled with other things like dirty plates, spoons and forks, and boxes of old books and papers. The bathroom door stood wide open, and had she not been paying attention as she tiptoed her way down the hall..she might almost have missed him. Al. Asleep on the toilet dressed to the nines in what he liked to call his 'business suit'. The buttons on the front of his shirt were open, revealing his fat, hairy belly on which rested a fist closed tightly around a bottle of scotch. Light through the window laid plain the muddy brown stain in the underwear he'd clearly forgotten to remove before sitting down. His red silk jacket was bunched under the door, thrown down in his haste to get in most likely.

Clamping her hand over her mouth she takes a step forward, leaning in to get a good look at her husband. He was deep into it. Sleeping, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. He wouldn't be getting up from there for a long time. Praise be to god. Tonight was the night. The _last _night.

Minnie turned towards the archway leading into the living room. Here there were long, dark streaks in the carpet from Al's cigars, and a sickly, yellow stain on the walls from the smoke. The furniture was all cheap discounted finds from thrift stores, junk yards and curb alerts made even shabbier looking from the countless beatings they'd taken in the backs of moving trucks. The couch was a legless ode to the 70's, covered from top to bottom with flowers the brightest colors.

On the coffee table lay the slip of paper she'd been waiting for more than year to see Alfred get his greasy hands on. Picking it up she almost couldn't believe what she was seeing. The symbol of the Foot Clan. The Shredders symbol. Recognition of Al's many 'contributions' to the organization. Of course he'd had to wear that suit. The silk cherry red with cream accents, polished matching shoes. Only the best for Shredder.

Only the _best_.

Minnie's hands shook, her eyes glossed with tears. She didn't read the message the note contained. She knew already what it said..what it meant. Alfred was now under the protection, and on the payroll of the Clan.

She tore it to pieces. First down the middle, then across and in every other way until it was not but a pile of flakes. Scattering the pieces of the contract, she approached the side closet where she knew he had it hidden. It was locked, but that wasn't a problem. She'd had the spare key for days now. It took some doing, getting the key into the deadbolt. It had a sticky film over it like everything her gormless owner put his hands on but she managed it, nearly tripping over her own feet to get in at the contents. Her knees collide with a rack of weights and it tips dangerously. She scrambles forward to catch it—but it's heavy, and she snatches her hands back before they're crushed. The sound it makes is deafening in the quiet and Minnie stands frozen for what seems like an eternity waiting to hear footsteps coming down the hall. To smell Alfred's rancid, fishy breath at her neck

Nothing happens. Alfred doesn't come and she seizes her opportunity, stepping over the piles and piles of junk to get into the back of the closet. It's dark and she can only just make out what she's touching. There are more boxes filled with refuse. There's more old, musty clothes. Rat traps with the remains peering up at her with their beady black eyes, bodies dry and hollow. More and more filth. Alfred. The sick fuck—he knew it would be the perfect place to stash it. The one place she'd never set foot. Uncharted territory.

Minnie closed her eyes and stretched out her hand pushing back against the nausea, pressing her other palm down into the mess to keep from slipping down onto the dusty little rat corpses. The safe was mere inches away. When she found the handle she pulled back. It was locked. Of course it was locked. She dug the key out from her pocket once again and shoved it into the darkness not knowing whether there was a lock where she struck or not. She pushed hard and snapped it to the left and was rewarded with a faint click. It was open now. The money was hers. Twenty _thousand_ dollars. It was hers to do with as she pleased. She had only to grab it and run. Run away from Alfred and the filthy hovel he lived in. Run away from the even filthier lifestyle he led.

Stack after stack she shoved into the duffle. One, two, three, four—and jewelry too! Diamonds! Pearls! Sapphires! Rubies—things fenced to him from his criminal friends, frequenters of his underground establishment, _The Shed_. All their handy work was in here including photo evidence of crimes committed by some of the more un-savories. It was Alfred's way of keeping them coming back to him. There were some personal things too. Things that belonged to her that he'd taken away the night she was sold off to him. Why had he kept them?

"Because you're _sick_ that's why." She whispers peering down into the now full bag, answering her own question, remember the sight of him on the toilet, sweating and stinking with his pants twisted up around his ankles. Minnie's conscious prods at her as she roots her way out of the closet, thinking of him in there and what it'll be like for him when he wakes in the morning. She'd told him time and again..

"_**Shit**_ will kill you Al.", to whit he'd responded, "Shaddup and cook me summin' to eat bitch."

And she _had_ cooked him something to eat. Lots of bowl clogging, artery obstructing meats. With extra grease.

She feels bad, but not too bad as she hauls the heavy bag over her shoulder and heads for the front door. The key to the safe and side closet she tosses across the room and replaces it with the one on the hook. In the grungy mirror before stepping out Minnie sees herself. A gangly, brown skinned frightened looking thing dressed in rags. Hair a tangled mess of sagging black ropes. A quote from a movie she watched a long time ago pops into her mind and she laughs stepping out into the long, red tinted corridor that led down to the entrance of her late husband's business. _The Shed_. Watering hole for New York's worst kind of people.

Minnie reaches back and pulls the door closed behind her, thinking about her current situation. She hadn't planned this far ahead. What time was it now? Four? Five? The Shed was closed. She wouldn't be able to get out through the bar or the back entrance. She didn't want anyone to see her. Her eyes wander down to her bare feet where the light of the moon from a window to her left illuminates the black and white checker flooring. Immediately in front of her is an elevator, but she can't take it. It led down to the basement where the liquor cases were kept and there wasn't any other way out down there.

She could see the shadow of the fire escape out there, made more prominent by the now steadily falling snow. It was her only way.

Walking to the window, Minnie glances over her shoulder at the red, blinking lights surrounding the door to the bar. How long would Al be able to keep it open without money? What would his associates say when he came and told him he'd lost the goods they'd fenced to him?

Who was she kidding? He could keep it open probably forever now he had the Foot's backing. The money they'd given him was a gift right? A token of their appreciation for services rendered. They'd give him more if he needed it. Sure they would. He let the Foot and the Dragon's sell drugs and run whores out of his place. It was only twenty grand. A drop in the bucket compared to how much their entire Manhattan estate was probably worth.

"Fuck. Why didn't I put on shoes?"

She was standing out in it now, arms wrapped tightly around her-self, feet clenched this time because of cold. Minnie looks around her. There's nothing but dingy brick, and falling snow in front of her. Smells, not unlike those she was used to back inside the apartment assault her senses. It's _so _cold. She hadn't planned this far ahead. Her freedom was down there in the dark just a quick hop down. But what would she do once she was down there? Where would she go?

A feeling of dread washes over her and she turns back to the window, shivering, looking in that the blinking red lights on the door down the hall.

_It would be warm in there. There would be food there._ Her brain tells her.

Minnie reaches out, with both hands and slams the window shut. She turns back around and walks to the ladder of the escape, holding onto it tightly with her hands and shaking it to test its strength before descending.

"If I can live in this place…I can live _anywhere_."


	2. Concentration

((A/N: I hope everybody has as much fun reading this as I had writing it. Enjoy. ))

Concentration

Meditation is supposed to be one of the easier parts of Ninja training. You sit down. You close your eyes, relax the mind, and the muscles follow. With a calm mind, body, and spirit the harder parts come easier. Focusing attacks, attuning yourself to your surroundings—being one step ahead of your opponent becomes the natural course. Meditation is the catalyst through which a good ninja becomes a better one.

If he can concentrate long enough to reap the benefits anyway…

Leonardo cracks open one eye, then the other, and looks across the room at his brothers. Donnie was in his lab, shell turned away from him tinkering away at some new invention. Raphael was there with him sitting, doing nothing. Just watching with an intense expression on his face as his brother turned the screwdriver in his hand backwards and forwards over and over again. Every now and then he'd whisper something and Don would nod and smile in response. Mikey was in his usual position, sprawled out across the couch sifting through comics, none of which he seemed to be particularly enthused about today. He hadn't flipped more than a couple of pages in the last hour. Master Splinter was where he always was. Presiding. There was no need to look to see if he was still at the table. He wasn't going anywhere.

The clink of porcelain from his direction takes with it the last vestiges of his dedication to the art for the day. He couldn't concentrate. There was too much going on—too much to think about. He stands, bows in apology to Splinter without ever looking up to meet his eyes. He couldn't deal with the look of disappointment in them the same look that had been there for a week now, burning into him—into the backs of his brothers.

He joins Mikey on the couch hiking his legs up to bring his heels to rest on the coffee table. There was a lot of mess here. Empty pizza boxes, half-empty cups, ratty magazines all mixed around with bunches of video tapes they'd attempted to watch over the last few days. Scarface, The Godfather, Species 2, and the current group favorite picked out by Donnie, Boxing Helena. A movie about a surgeon with a crazy obsession for a woman he'd had an embarrassing encounter with months prior to his meeting up with her again. A movie about a beautiful, unattainable woman. Of course Donnie would pick something like that. What was the main character's name?..

A picture of the man from the movie flashes through his memory. He could see him, Nick the surgeon down on his knees in front of Helena, grey blue eyes alive with emotion. Helena looks down on him from her chair hands gripping the wheels of her chair tightly, knuckles white. She hates him. Detests him for what he's done to her. She'll never walk again because of him. He got her hit by a car and rather than calling for help he took her from where she lay bleeding and broken on the street into his home. He removed her legs and kept her under sedation for weeks enjoying the half of her that was left. Then when she finally woke from her drug induced daze proclaimed his love—begged her to love him, to give him the chance to prove to her he could satisfy her. In all ways.

"_If you were a real woman, you'd lie to me about our sex!"_

"_When people __**lie**__ about sex—it is out of love and __**respect**__ for certain __**feelings**__! And I don't give a __**shit**__ about __**your**__**feelings**__!"_

Helena's hands wrap themselves around Nick's neck, squeezing, pressing down on his airway. Nick manages to wrench himself out of Helena's grasp. He falls back onto the floor, tears and snot dribbling down into his mouth, fear and shame making more apparent his delicate, child-like features.

"Mikey?"

Michelangelo sits up, tossing the comic he was half way reading to the side. It slides off the edge of the couch and onto the floor. Right on top of the case holding the dreaded 'Boxing Helena'.

" Sup?"

How to approach this topic? Should he be direct? Was he supposed to whisper or speak normally? Did it really even matter whether or not he was quiet about it? It was months ago. Splinter knew everything-all the sordid details of their last unplanned excursion to the surface. He knew about the drinking, the fights, the girls and had made sure they'd suffered for it a thousand times over. Never in the history of his life had he ever resented his father as much as he had that day, the morning they'd come screeching into the garage in Casey's van wreaking of cheap perfume and alcohol.

Splinter had charged in, whiskers aquiver swinging his walking stick at every unguarded body part. Mikey who'd been the one closest to the door when he'd opened it, got it first, then Donnie, who, startled awake by the sudden commotion, stood up just in time to be put back down again. Raph he didn't beat. He just picked him up and tossed him out the back into a pile of tools and scrap metal. The beer cans littering the floor of the van were used to pelt an already supplicating and remorseful Leonardo. Casey whose idea it had been in the first place to go out attempted several times to come to their defense but Splinter would hear none of it. Casey and his van were sent packing and for the rest of that day he'd drilled them. Hard. Every minute of every hour they weren't on their knees heaving up the prior evening's poison they were being put through their paces sparring with one another, beating the stuffing out of their training dummies, practicing and practicing again and again the most physically demanding moves he could think to make them do.

Leo could taste the bile on his tongue even now…feel the burning in his muscles from the severe overtaxing of that day. He frowns, unsure of how to approach the subject now he'd thought it all over. What was the point in discussing it—revisiting that night?

Mikey grins in that goofy way of his, reaches out to tap his introspective brother on the arm.

"It was worth it. You _know_ it was."

Leo folds his arms across his chest, and looks away, trying hard not to smile back. In Donnie's work area he and Raph were sitting closer together now, heads touching. They were laughing about something. He could see it in the way their shoulders shook.

"I don't agree with you Mikey.", Leo says, swallowing the little bubble of joy his brother had managed to coax out of him. "Master Splinter is more than just angry at us this time. Think how we must have looked to him dressed like we were. Think how ashamed of us he must have been when he saw those pictures…those videos."

"Like Master Splinter never did anything crazy."

Mikey picked up the T.V remote and pressed the power button. The television blinked a few times, then showed picture, one of his favorites, the cheesiest of all horror films. Army of Darkness_._ Not that it mattered. He hadn't been much in the mood for T.V for a long time now. He couldn't concentrate long enough to get engaged in the stories. After turning it up a few octaves he scoots closer to Leo, hiking his own feet up onto the table. He leans in good and close, voice low and says, "Remember Anna? The one who had on the _really_ tight pants?"

"Mikey I'm being serious with you. He hasn't said more than a hand full of sentences to us in _days_. Doesn't that bother you at all?"

"Yeah it bothers me Leo. But I mean what can we _do_ about it?"

"We could talk to him. Apologi—"

"We did that. All during that first day remember? He made it pretty clear he didn't wanna hear anything we had to say about it."

The two turn just in time to see Raphael plop down on the far end of the couch, eyes narrowed, teeth ground together. In his hand was a T-Cell, opened, reflecting an image. Before Leo could open his mouth to question, Michelangelo bound over him to get a look.

"Lemme guess! Lemme guess!", he says, sitting down cooly next to his brother, closing his eyes and putting his fingers to his temples for dramatic affect. "Somebodyyy—took a picture of you puking in the piss trough at Dougies!"

"Shut up Mikey!"

The phone is tossed onto the table where it lands, face up, revealing the source of Raph's irritation. It's a picture, not of him puking, but of him packed into a dance cage with a clearly out of sorts Casey dressed in nothing but the sweat pants he'd worn out and a sparkly sequin bikini top. Donnie's laughter reaches them from where he sits at his work bench, each snort raising Raphael's ire by ten decimels.

"It's not _funny_!"

Mikey stares at the picture for a long time, with his hands clamped over his mouth until finally he can no longer hold it in. He joins Donnie in the crack up, tears of mirth streaming down his face.

Raphael shakes his head, staring into the screen at the image of himself behind his friend, a wreath of shiny plastic beads around his neck, hands behind his head grinding into what he's sure at the time he thought was another girl and _not_ Casey Jones.

"I barely even remember that!"

"Well there's the evidence. Plain as day."

Leo picks up the phone and presses the button on back, closing it. "There's a lot of stuff we did that night we _barely_ remember! All the more reason to move forward and put it all behind us! Concentrate on our training!"

Mikey, who had fallen off the couch onto the floor looked up at Leo's words, scans the serious expression on his face briefly before bursting out laughing again. Who was he kidding?

"Give it a _rest_—_**Finisher**_! You got just as rowdy as we did! Remember all those shot guns Leo? Hmm?"

"Finisher! Now that I _do _remember. You sluggin' back the rest o' all those drinks the chicks couldn't polish off. Which one did you say you liked best? Oh yeah. I think it was called, 'Pussy Water'."

Typical Raphael. Quick to dish it out when it was about someone other than him. A sick feeling washes over Leo recalling that particular incident, sitting at the bar, wedged in between his brothers and the group of Casey's college friends they'd met up with earlier in the night. The whole thing had just been awkward in the beginning, trying to come up with a good explanation as to why he couldn't take off his jacket or baseball cap, trying to come up with good responses to advances made toward him by curious males and females alike. He couldn't think of anything else to do _but_ drink in that instance. You didn't have to answer questions when you were drunk. You didn't have to try hard to make yourself understood. There were no high expectations of you. No concentration required.

He glanced over at Donnie, still in his work area, pacing back and forth now, staring into some random piece of equipment. He was trying so hard to stay focused but it was impossible now he'd started thinking about it. What parts did he remember and not remember? What parts were fuzzy for him? Leo wondered.

It didn't matter. It wouldn't be happening again anytime soon. They had things to do. Things that did _not_ involve shot gunning and sparkly bikini tops.

Things like night patrol and gathering information.

He looked down at the discarded comic that covered Boxing Helena and kicked them both under the coffee table, completely out of sight.

"This is _it_ guys. This is the last time we talk about this. We have responsibilities. We need to focus! Concentrate on what's most important."

Reflexively they all look in the direction of Master Splinter, no longer at his table his shadow can be seen flitting back and forth behind the screen entrance of his bedroom. The T.V was no longer needed as a buffer for their conversation. Raphael leans forward and snatches the remote from Mikey's hand turning it.

Donnie at long last comes over to join them and Leo gives him a scathing look.

"You're not allowed to pick the movies anymore."

"Huh? Why not?"

"Because you always pick sick shit." Raph answers for him and without further ado, Leo begins the task of explaining to his brothers what they were going to be doing that night.

He didn't like it, but having had a lot of time to think about it, he could understand why his father was so upset with them. Mistakes were something he expected them to make, but there were some mistakes, like dressing in thrift store clothes and running through the streets completely wrecked yelling , 'Goon Squad!', that Master Splinter's sense of pride in himself and in his sons, refused to let him accept. His standards for them were high as regarded personal dignity and they definitely hadn't acted like they'd had much that night.

Why hadthey done it? Where had it all come from? Casey was by no means an expert in the art of persuasion.

"_C'mon guys! Please? I'm tired o'gettin' snubbed by those dudes on the Varsity! I need ya! Raph? Road dogs fa' eva remember?"_

Pitty. That had to be the reason. They'd pittied Casey his abysmal social life since leaving the city and going away to college. Missed him too, and wanted to spend some time with their old friend. Things got a little out of hand. Some things were said, inappropriate gestures made, illegal substances abused. It wouldn't happen again.

Now he just had to figure out how to say all that to their father and make it look like he believed it.

His brothers stare up at him, equally skeptical looks on their faces.

The image of Helena, lying on the ground with her slim, white legs twisted grotesquely underneath her flashes across Leo's vision for a moment, sickening him.

"Ugh. Let's just-I'll talk to Master Splinter.", he says, and hops up off the couch. Whatever he would have to say, whatever he did when Leo walked in through the door would be better than sitting around wondering. This situation needed closure. On all fronts.


	3. Thinking Positive

((A/N: Thank you for all the favorites and follows! I appreciate it a lot! 3 This chapter is separated into sections due to length and to cut down on confusion about what's happening. I put a line to show where the story tapers to a different scene, but the site doesn't show it. So a '#' will be the symbol for that. Enjoy!))

**Thinking Positive**

Minnie looked at the girl lying on the cot next to hers, Kelsey, one of three of her roommates in, _The Safe Haven_ Manhattan homeless shelter. Kelsey was the nosey one. The one she liked least and the one she'd had the most conflict with since she'd come five days ago.

"_What's in the bag dread head?"…"Where ya' from? Haven't seen __**you**__ in the bread line before."…"Where'd you get them shoes? I didn't see nothin' like that in the clothin' bin."_

Questions. Always with the questions. She was so very tired of being asked questions.

If you left in the morning you were asked where you were going and reminded to be back before the doors closed. If you didn't go to chapel on Sundays you were asked why not. If you didn't show enthusiasm for the food—the piss poor bits of charity the kind citizens of New York delivered to you weekly in plastic drum containers you were asked why you weren't grateful.

And oh it was _filthy_. Everything was dirty. So very, very dirty. The bed sheets were stained, thin from incorrect laundering practices. Children belonging to the other residents ran around, touching everything with their sticky little hands. The elderly gassed constantly, stinking up the place with their unapologetic belching and farting. Old, molded, peeling tile adhesive was there to greet her every day she walked into the showers, trying without much success to cover herself with the proffered, much too short towel.

It was bad. But..not _all_ bad. There were things to be thankful for. For instance…she was still breathing. She was able to open her eyes and sit up every morning—look out the window and see the sun. She had clothes. Nice ones too, courtesy of the fence money she'd taken from her probably by now, _late _husband.

On the floor was a pair of very well cushioned slippers she'd bought that morning at a shopping center not far away. They were blue, like the pajama's she wore—nothing fancy, nothing anyone would be suspicious of. Just a t-shirt and sweats. The sweats, despite having come from a dollar store were so plush. That was something else to be thankful for. Another thing to be thankful for…something she'd used to carry her through the dark and foulness of all those alleys four nights ago…she never had to see any of the faces of _The Sheds_ patrons again. More even than the feeling—the _look_ of Alfred's nude body as he panted and sweated over her, she couldn't get the faces of those people out of her head. People like the China Town Peach, a hideous woman, thin as a rail, her body a road map of torture. She had always been there. Every night without fail. With that smile on her face—that false happiness that looked so real it sparkled in her eyes. Her Master, someone Minnie knew without a shadow of a doubt was Foot, always ordered the same thing every time he came in.

"_Crown n' Coke Minnie Mouse. Pina Co' for Peaches." _He would say in his raspy voice, running his tongue across his thick, pouty lips. She had found him handsome she remembered. All muscle and bone with a chiseled jaw he presented an impressive figure in comparison to Al..to the others. It was he, she remembered, that had helped get Al his first fence. Nothing big. Just finding the proper people with whom to dispose of some recently acquired contraband. She remembered him specifically not because of his looks or even his connection to the Foot, but because of how unbelievably cruel he looked. Even the sickest, vilest people she'd met and served she'd managed to find an inkling of humanity in—in the way they'd dealt with Al, with her. There was a code of ethics even the lowest of low followed and while he'd never done anything in front of her that suggested he ascribed to a different set, Peaches face..her mangled, emaciated body..that smile..haunted her. How had she ended up like that? What was her life like before she was taken?

Minnie clamps her hands over her mouth, shuts her eyes and rolls over into her pillow. Hot tears course their way down her cheeks. Every time she thought of her she cried. She tried to put it out of her mind. She tried to think of herself, of her own loss but it was impossible to think that way. It was _wrong _to think that way. Her sorrows in some part were Peaches sorrows. And Amy's, and Brianne's and all the others. It wasn't just about her.

She presses her face hard into the nylon of the cot, and pulls the pillow over her head. The wool blanket covering her she kicks off onto the floor and instantly regrets it, the cool of the night settling quickly around her exposed form. She didn't look quite as bad as she'd originally thought, she realized, once she'd gotten brave enough to actually stand in front of a mirror for longer than a minute. She'd lost weight. A lot of weight since that night five years ago, but she wasn't skinny. She wasn't bones. There was some depth still. Some small beauty. She'd gotten lucky with Al. He hadn't been the physically abusive type. He'd never hit her, so she had no bumps or bruises. But she had a lot of ugly memories. Memories of things he'd done to her worse than beating.

Images of the bodies..the long dead bodies of the rodents in the closet, still stuck in the snap traps—caked in all that dust—had been a warning aimed specifically at her.

"_I'll make you eat it! I catch you in here again-! Botherin' me in my private time—I'll make you __**eat**__ it!"_

Eat his shit. His filth.

Minnie rolls back over, and opens her eyes wide, as wide as she can make them go, until it hurts. Until the ceiling blurs and her eyes start to dry out.

"Think positive. _Think positive_. You're free now. You're safe now."

There was no point in dwelling on it. The past was the past. She needed to be here in the present..

Kelsey stirs on her cot and sits up sharply.

Minnie closes her eyes again, and reaches her hands behind her head to pull her dreads out from behind her, draping them over her shoulders. They'd gotten so long, coming down to between her shoulders, scratching the back of her neck.

"Sorry. I just had a bit of a panic attack. Didn't mean to wake you."

Her voice sounded so flat and robotic. Was that really her that had just spoken? Had she always talked like that?

"You sure have a lot o' those. You don't think maybe you might need to see a doctor or something? Get some meds to help you sleep? I'm on the struggle over here listenin' to you cry into your pillow every night."

"…"

She really…_really_ didn't like Kelsey. She didn't like her questions—her snide comments. She especially didn't like that face of hers. That round, pudgy, pig face.

"I _said_ I was sorry. What do you want from me? I can't help I cry sometimes."

It wasn't like she was the only one that ever had. It was a homeless shelter. People cried all the time.

Kelsey swings her legs over the side of her cot and scoots to the edge, resting her elbows on her thighs. She is indeed an unattractive piece. Barely above five feet, her short limbs, stubby fingers, and huge eye's give her the look of a frog ready to jump.

She shakes her dirty blonde locks out of her face and puckers her lips, showing off the ring of silver in the center. What was with that? Was it supposed to be cute? Make her look kissable?

"I don't want anything from you. Other than my beauty sleep."

Think positive. What would be a good way to resolve this issue?

An image of Kelsey lying flat on her back with a bloody nose brings a smile to Minnie's face.

Hitting her wasn't an option sadly. Fighting got you kicked out and she didn't want to get kicked out. It was the last place she could think of that anyone looking for her would come. When you had as much money as she had, why would you go to a homeless shelter? Why not leave the country and start over? Some really poor rat bag place where twenty grand meant something?

That was how she rationalized it. And how she _hoped _The Foot, and other people whose belonging's she'd taken out of that safe would rationalize it.

It was whatever. Even if they found her she had a plan.

The duffle with all her money and belongings was underneath her, zipped and locked shut with a pacsafe bolt—something else she'd got out of the shopping center that week. It was a combination lock. No key for her to keep up with. The jewels she'd taken out and spread through the lining of a jacket, an old parka she'd found in the donation bin. Even if she lost the bag no one would check the jacket. If she lost both…

Then she still had pay dirt. Alfred's stockpile of photo evidence of the misdeeds of his patrons. There was a fully functional computer lab here for the use of the residents. A block away was a library with copiers and scanners. If something happened she still had a chance. She just had to be able to outrun a ninja.

_Crap cakes. _

Minnie opens her eyes, and turns her head to look at Kelsey who is still sitting up, peering down at her with those big buggy peepers. If she wasn't so short and dumpy, she'd be sort of cute. Her eyes were a pretty color anyway.

"Kelsey?", she says smiling.

Making friends with her would be the more positive way to go. The smarter way to go.

"Huh?"

"I'm pretty sure the soc at the front desk is passed out in the day room by now. I got a little cash. Wanna go around the corner and get a drink?"

Five days was sufficient enough time for them to have conducted their business with Al. Right? They wouldn't come looking for the twenty grand. It was a gift of service. They could _always _get more high quality jewelry. They had people for that.

"I _knew_ you had money! It's in that bag under your bed isn't it?!"

The rustling of sheets. The sound of bare feet slapping the floor.

"Money?! What money? Who's got money?"

Karen. Another one she didn't like. She hadn't planned for her.

But then she hadn't really planned for Kelsey either. The free beer had been a spur of the moment idea, an idea meant to serve a specific purpose. But then what was one more? Karen was annoying as hell too. Talking. Always talking. She was under 21. Had to be.

"You're going somewhere? Where are you going?!"

What was one more? She lived in the present now. So it was here she needed to put her effort.

Minnie stands up and slips her feet into her shoes. Not the slippers. Boots. A good, sturdy, no-skid pair. Sometimes…not often…but sometimes…you could find some good stuff in that raggedy old bin.

"Keep quiet and I'll let you come along to see."

**#**

"You don't know where she is?"

"No! No—please Sam! Sam I _wouldn't_-!"

"You don't know of _anywhere_ she might go? Don't know of any friends she has?"

Sampson pushes the tip of his blade deeper into the old bull's skin, twisting it. A little to the left..a little to the right. His blood flows in a steady stream down the length of the silvery surface arching outward..creating the most fascinating of patterns. It reaches the hilt, pools and collects there briefly before making its way onto his hand.

Alfred lets loose with a surprisingly high pitched scream, his greasy, fat head colliding hard with the tile wall behind him. He is in agony. He is humiliated here..naked in his own kitchen, tied to a chair groaning with the effort of holding him up. He has been here three days alone. Alone with Sampson—The Shredder's sadistic street soldier. The organizer of all his inner-city workings on the Lower East Side. His Peach is here with him not far away watching the preceedings. She's dressed in all the finest brands…Jimmy Choo..Louis Vuuiton…Chanel. Her ragged, ugly skin shows underneath in such clear contrast it's apparent none of the finery was given as a gift. It couldn't have been. No. It was a joke at her expense. Another of Sampson's ways of trying to put out the light you could see still burning in her eyes. Was that twinkle real or fake? Was that smile genuine or had it been trained onto her like the way she wore her hair or how much blush she used to color her face?

Members of the Foot glide silently this way and that through the kitchen, the living room, everywhere there could be potential evidence of where Minnie had gone to. There is no reason for it. They'd already checked the storage closet. They'd seen the empty safe.

Sampson snatches the knife out of the new wound he'd just given, eliciting a yelp from his sag and sorry captive and slides his fingertip down the length of it, inspecting it.

He had all the information he needed already.

"What a stupid, stupid man you are Alfie."

Tears pour forth from his eyes, his pallor darkens, his lips tremble.

"You just keep fucking up."

"Sam! Sam please!

They'd been here three days. There was nothing here. He knew that. The men knew it. There was no reason to stay. No further avenues to pursue. _The Shed _would be no more once he disposed of old Al.

"I don't know _how_ she got the keeyy! I don't know _how_ she knew about them! Please don' kill me—I got –I got-!"

"Don't give me that shit Alfred."

He'd been here three days. Alone. Tied to this chair, naked. His body shone with perspiration—the struggle to breathe, to endure. On his legs and arms were swollen, festering cuts Sampson had given him over the course of the days they'd spent together, him questioning, Alfred doing his best to give answers. There hadn't been any need to question Alfred. He'd always known he was the slow type. He'd always known he'd slip up in some way sooner or later. You could just tell by looking at him he wasn't very bright. His portly body, unsteady gait, and shifty eyes told you most of what you needed to know about him. To figure out the rest all you had to do was step into his dingy little dive downstairs.

It was a low class establishment run by someone with foolishly high class expectations of himself. All those cute little tables with the red chiffon cloths draped over them and the Febreeze candles to mask the stench wafting down from his apartment-the crystal drinking glasses..the pretty girl he'd had pouring the drinks—his contract with the Foot Clan—it had all been to get closer to his dream of making a legitimate of himself. Becoming someone other than Dirty Al, seller of cheap booze, holder of merchandise.

There was no reason to question Al. No reason to prolong he suffering.

"You have _nothing_. And you have _always _had nothing."

Sampson leans in closer to Alfred, his dark eyes roaming, searching for somewhere else to put his knife. Alfred groans, leaning his face away, trembling, breathing heavily. Sampson has an arresting face. He is an Adonis. Standing at a little above six-foot, red haired and brown eyed he is the _quintessential_ component. He is one of the few of the New York branch of the Clan to have ever given Shredder any reason to want to meet with him personally.

Alfred turns his head and looks back, blinking sweat from his eyes. He could see why. He could see why Shredder would use him.

There was nothing in him. Not a shred of human decency..of humanity. He was perfect for the kind of work he did—the abduction and sale of human beings. He puts his knife down, slowly, carroty brows furrowing.

The fanatical haze that had glossed him for the last three days dissipates. He smells something. Something sour.

Sampson looks around him as if for the first time seeing the molded over counter tops, and the bugs skittering over the dishes in the sink. Behind him, seated primly on the nightstand, Peaches appears to barely be breathing. It's the smell. The awful smell of the place.

"Men!"

They are there in a fraction of a silent second, side by side.

"Prepare to torch the building…You."

He points to the one in the center. Foot Ninja do not have names. They do not have numbers or ID tags. They don't have faces. Their identity means nothing once they become Foot.

"Get me some bags. It doesn't matter from where."

They bow and in another silent second they are gone. Peaches too, retreats. Alfred is alone again. Naked in his kitchen. Tied to a chair.

Sampson smiles, and puts his hands to his hips, looking back to Alfred. "Well old man looks like its curtains."

His voice doesn't fit him. It's so raspy. So deep and scratchy sounding. Alfred says nothing, only stares back, mouth agape. He hears glass breaking downstairs and knows from the way it sounds it's his crystal.

"I hope Minnie gets away."

"You do?.."

He feels the point pressing into the side of his neck.

"I'm surprised to hear you say that Al. Especially considering all you said in the beginning. What brings about this sudden change of heart?"

The skin breaks.

"I never beat her. Never. I don't believe in that."

"You believed in feeding her spoiled food. Locking her in dark closets filled with rotting garbage."

"I hope she gets away…"

Sampson shakes his head, sighs, and pats Alfred's sweaty, blonde head before plunging his knife into him completely.

"I hope she gets away too, old man. Sleep tight."

#

_3/6/14: April..call me. We should really talk._

"Donnie! C'mon! We're leaving!"

Donatello pushes back away from his computer and stares into the screen for a few more seconds before getting up. He grabs his bo staff from its position leaning up against the wall and stows it away in its customary place on his back.

What else did he need? Or more importantly, what did he think _might_ need?

He looks around the humble jumble that is his work room in specific areas. At specific things. Remote control to the—no. Night vision goggles? No. Net gun?

"Why in the shell do I have a net gun?.."

He scratches his head, trying to think of a time when he and his brother's had ever had need of such a device. Images of all the intergalactic beings and super powered aliens they've faced over the years busting through some of his best laid traps adds to his bewilderment. If an electrified laser force field couldn't keep it at bay how was netting made out of nothing but a flimsy synthetic polymer supposed to be able to get the job done?

He sees the remote control to the Battle Shell and just as he reaches out to grab it, his name is called again, louder, more insistent this time.

Everyone is waiting on him. Raphael is the closest—standing at the foot of the short flight of stairs that leads to his work area. He'd been like that the whole week. Close to him. It was weird. Unnerving..but he appreciated it. Sort of anyway.

Mikey and Leo were at the exit. Or entrance. Or whichever. It didn't matter. He couldn't focus. He glanced back at his computer screen, snatching up the remote to the Battle Shell at the same time, not wanting to make the fact obvious.

No response.

He shakes his head at Raph on his way past, noting the annoyed expression on his brother's face. They make their way out and up onto the surface together in a tense silence.

Michelangelo talks the whole way as per usual and Leo half-heartedly participates. It takes a long time it seems to reach the surface. A long time to remove the manhole cover and an even longer amount of time for them all to get out and onto to a rooftop.

It's cold. Icy and ugly. Steam rises from underground, melting the snow in the streets, creating little, slow running streams in the gutters. Pigeons, those that have for some reason not yet flown south huddle together on the power lines, their dark feathers shuddering in the breeze. Far off in the distance is the smoke from the factories across the East River, pouring forth their poison into the atmosphere—the chemicals causing the flakes in that area to fall to the ground black.

Despite the weather, the late hour, people hurry to and fro down below. In and out of stores. The Laundromat, the liquor store, even some cafés were still open. Directly in front of them was a place they all knew well. Vito's Pizzeria. It was still open, churning out pies—sending its delivery boys to various addresses throughout the city.

Mikey's eyes follow the short black pony tail and formfitting red and white checkered jacket of one of them in particular. He leans forward over the edge of the building. Just a little. Just a tiny little bit. He didn't want Leo noticing and yelling at him to focus. To be vigilant.

Was that her? She _did_ say she worked at a pizza place. He leaned a little further, squinting to get a look at the rest of her ensemble. Pants. Of course. It was cold. But were they _tight _pants?

"Mikey…stop."

Ugh. Always. It never failed.

Sigh.

"Okay Leo."

((A/N: Phew. Hope you guys liked that. :D Please feel free to leave a review. I like feedback!))


	4. Distraction Pt 1

Distraction Pt. 1

((A/N: Split into two chapters due to length. As always enjoy and feel free to leave a review.))

Smoke rising up from the buildings in the Lower East.

What to do?

It was far away. Too far away for he and his brothers to get to in any amount time to help. What kind of building _was_ is it? Warehouse? Someone's apartment? It was so hard to tell the difference. Everything looked the same in winter—covered in grit and heaps of snow.

Leo wracked his brain for memory of a fire department close by that area. _Was_ there one?

His shoulders tense. His fingers curl where they rest on the stone edging of the building. There was always so much to consider with things like this. It may not even be necessary that they intervene. It could just be a storage building. On the other hand it could also be Purple Dragon's burning down someone's home or business in which case it was _paramount_ they get there as soon as possible.

"Leo..you seein' that smoke?"

Too much shuffling going on in the background. Raph was breathing too hard.

The smoke was starting to get thicker. He had no way of knowing as far off as they were whether or not help was on its way. He didn't know what _kind _of building it was. There was too little information present for this to pan out well.

But it didn't matter. They needed to get out and do something. Anything.

"I see it. Let's move."

He is the first to leap, feet barely touching the ground before he's up in the air again clearing the next distance. The gently falling snow flakes turns to blades of ice stinging his skin as he runs, sailing over empty black spaces, rushing down fire escapes. The snow and ice build-up makes things harder, but not by much. They'd had a lot of practice over the years, battling the elements. If it wasn't for the danger of slipping and falling you'd almost call it..fun.

The sound of Mikey's laughter reaches his ears, followed by an angry yell from Raphael who'd no doubt just taken a heaping of frost powder to the shell. Donnie says something to Mikey. Something like 'You better not', and then he gets it too.

Fun. _Missions_ were fun. Investigating this fire would be _fun_. They would go in, assess the damage—rescue anyone who was inside—and then…said person would likely scream and run away in terror.

But that was okay. It was okay because…

Leo jumps too far, too high, and too fast and lands hard a few feet from the edge of the tenement adjacent the one they were after. He slips and falls back onto his shell, and for a few scary moments he's sliding, trying to get purchase on the slick, tar painted surface of the roof.

Why didn't I wrap my hands? He wonders as he teeters over the edge after what seems like a millennia, grasping onto to a piece of piping leading down into the alleyway adjacent their target. Mistakes. He hated making them.

Smoke from the fire billows out from the windows on the bottom floor, stinging his eyes. It was bad, but still not too bad. It was no raging inferno at least.

He slides down the pipe, flipping off at the halfway mark landing on the fire escape across the way next to Raph whom he could only just barely make out through the smog. It had a terrible, foul odor—it wasn't just the normal everyday mixture of burning paint, and household chemicals. All this he could tell without the window even being opened. He dreads the seconds before Raphael's fist—wrapped tight around the yoku of his sai—collides with the glass.

The floor is warm—hot almost. The linoleum curls and chips under their feet as they make their way down the narrow hallway toward the door to the right. Downstairs was not an option. The entrance way was beginning to cave in—flames from the area it led to lapping outward, scarring the ceiling and walls. Behind them, right across from what looked like the door to a residence was another room closed behind a red painted, antique, wrought iron screen door sweating in the steadily rising heat. From here comes crashing outward a very panicked looking and dirty Michelangelo coated from head to foot in dust and dried bugs. He'd come in through the roof—the ventilation system.

The far off sound of more breaking glass lets them know Donatello is inside, and without hesitation Mikey shoves past Raph, slamming his shoulder into the barrier knocking it clean off it's hinges and runs inside. They are in after him a split second later, coughing—eyes burning—watering.

Someone had been here, more than one person—sifting through things. There were foot prints all over the place in the dust going back and forth between each room. Boxes had been moved, pushed against the wall their contents pulled out and strewn across the floor. The couch had been flipped. Sliced open—all its stuffing blowing in a gentle arc toward the window Donnie had come in through. Freezing air and snow pours in, changing for a brief moment the ugly chemistry of the room.

Donatello is there in the kitchen, standing next to the wilted, nude form of a man—fingers on his pulse, the picture of cool, brow raised in its usual inquisitive manner. Michelangelo stands back toward the shattered window, eyes as big as saucers—mask drooping on the left side of his face. He's drenched in sweat. His eyes are starting to swell.

What did you see Mikey?

But there isn't time to ask.

Donnie walks casually out of the kitchen, fissures opening up in the floor behind him as he makes his way—flame and a sickly, sweet smelling smoke rising up to claim the man in the chair.

Leo turned and hopped up on the sill, swallowing down the bubble of guilt that immediately began to rise at the site of his brother so casually walking away from the scene…from the dead man. It didn't need to be said. It had been apparent from the first he'd seen the knife reflected in the light—the thick coating of blood down his chest. There was nothing to do but leave him where he was. What could they do with a dead body?

He and Michelangelo are the first to hit the ground back outside, followed by Donnie, and then—after a few agonizing moments, comes Raphael skidding around the corner, bringing up the rear. People from the surrounding buildings have spilled out onto the street. Hands point upward at the rising flames, screams ring out as the second floor of the building finally collapses down to the first—spraying the surrounding area with sparks.

The sound of sirens approaching—bright blue, and red lights flashing creates a furrow in the crowd allowing the suspiciously _late_ authorities to get through. The firemen hop off the truck, impassive and unhurried in their motions. The police put up blocks, push people back and threaten to arrest anyone who kicks up a dust.

"_We called an __**hour**__ ago! What the hell took them so long?! Hey! Hey buddy! I want answers! What gives here?! It's families live around here and you're just takin' your sweet ass time!"_

"_Everything is under control sir. Just calm down."_

"_Calm down? There's a fricking smoldering building six feet away from my __**house**__!"_

They were more than a block away before anyone said anything. They stuck to the shadows on the ground, due to all the heads poking out of the windows up top peering out at all the commotion down the street.

It felt good to be out, the icy wind washing over their saturated, sticky skins—a soothing balm. Soothing so long as they kept moving anyway and they moved for quite some time, not really considering their destination until they found it.

April's rooftop. A blacktop apart from all the others in New York. It was decorated with flower pots and old, antique decorations of all shapes and sizes she'd kept for herself out of view of some of her sharper eyed customers. The chief among them was her extensive collection of wind chimes; one of the reasons Leo liked coming here to discuss things of importance with his brothers. People on the outside listening in couldn't hear anything but the tinkling of cowry shells, beads and metals tubes clanging together.

Donatello reaches back, pulling the bloodied knife from its current position in his belt and holds it up in the light for everyone to see. Coated in thick, dark congealed blood-there's no mistaking the symbol on the handle shining through the black laquer and viscera.

"Look Leo. A distraction." Come's Raphael's voice over the cacophony of sound made by the chimes. He sit's Indian style among a small grouping of garden gnomes and 60's lawn ornaments scrubbing himself with handfuls of snow to remove the soot and other trace elements of the place they'd left behind.

Never in his whole life had he ever felt so dirty. He glances over at Michelangelo, not too far away, leaning up against the skylight scrubbing the bottoms of his feet into the little icy puddles around him. The light shining up from inside April's apartment made visible the 'bits' and 'pieces' he'd brought along with him from their excursion. The watery slush was an insufficient source—melting quickly under the heat from all the force he was exerting.

What did you step in Mike?

What was worse than watching a decades old bug infestation crawl its way out of a fire?

Raphael shuddered at the memory- scrubbed harder. Leo and his quest for perfection was going to get them all killed one day. Why did he have to take everything Splinter said—and _didn't_ say so fucking seriously?

"So we've got a dead guy and a knife with the symbol of the Foot on it." He said, voice muffled briefly by a large clump of compressed, dirty snow he mooshed into his face. It was starting to burn now. He couldn't feel his fingertips anymore. Just a tingly, pins and needles sensation. That was good. No more itchy-crawly.

"We don't know anything about the guy or why he was killed. We just know our ol' pal Shredder has something to do with it."

"Or someone connected to him." Donnie adds, sweeping snow off of one of April's lawn chairs and sitting down. She'd taken all the cushions into storage for the winter. The metal carriage pushed uncomfortably into the backs of his thighs. "The Purple Dragon's do stuff like that all the time. Leave obvious trails and wreckage behind them and hope a good hot fire burns it all away. Not that it matters when you've got the police and fire departments all paid off."

Leo shook his head.

"That's _proof_ it wasn't them in and of itself. They might be one of the larger more organized gangs, but they aren't the most powerful."

"_That_..and-."

Raphael stood up, stretching his arms and legs, wiggling his fingers and toes to get the feeling back in them.

"Though I'm sure Shred-Head appreciates the good tongue swathing Hun give's his cock every night, I_ seriously_ doubt he'd be the one he'd send to do something like that. That place wasn't just your average run of the mill sleaze bags house. I seen some stuff in the back. Sick stuff."

"Besides hoards of rats and roaches running to freedom?" Leo asks smirking.

"Don't remind me!"

Mikey picks one of his feet up off the ground to look at the bottom of it. It looked clean…but it didn't _feel_ clean. Was April awake? Signs pointed to yes. Maybe she would be willing to fix a little late night snack. Something like maybe a big bowl of those jalepeno pop things or some of that fancy yogurt she kept hidden in the back of fridge she thought no one knew about.

Food. The best comfort in the world when you were a crime fighting turtle. Well…other than maybe playing with your pet cat.

_Did I remember to feed you Klunk?_

"It wasn't just the guy. There were some other people too. In that room I came out of. I landed on them coming out of the vent. Somebody shot them up."

Those poor girls slumped over on that mattress..with holes in their heads. Eyes still open, staring. Mikey swallowed, strained to push the image away.

A distraction.

Food was a good distraction. Yeah…some chips. Pie..bologna. Pizza!

He popped his head up and looked around at all his brothers, blue grey eyes alight with their usual exuberance, smile back in place.

"I'm hungry! Can we wake up April and talk about this later?"

"No Mikey. It's two in the morning. We'll go home and eat."

"Aw c'mon Donnie! You _know_ she's awake. Probably lying on the couch staring at her instant messenger wondering when you're gonna say hello!"

"Fuck you."

Donnie looked past Mikey at where Raph was standing looking like a big, green gargoyle among the cheerful, pipe smoking residents of April's rooftop.

"You can't hold piss in a bucket Raph!"

"Hey- I didn't tell im' nothin'!"

"Sure you didn't you big liar!"

"I'm not lying! It's not like it's hard to miss Don!"

"It's really not dude. We've all seen the texts you guys send each other."

"GUYS! Bloody knife—three _dead_ people remember?"

Silence. Leo takes a deep breath and turns away from them looking out over the neighborhood. Looking, but not really seeing. It was the Foot. It couldn't be anybody else. No one else they knew of other than Shredder had that kind of clout with the authorities. There was also the state of the place to take into account. Someone had been looking for something. But what?

"Psh. He's just mad cuz' he didn't get to kick-assassinate anyone off a roof tonight."

"Shut up Raph. Gear up guys."

"Aww! No Yoplait? All ya' got is that nasty Greek stuff? Ick!"

Mikey had his face pressed into the glass of the skylight, squinting to see what it was April was holding up for him to see. She seemed extremely pleased to see him, standing there bouncing up and down in her puffy house robe with a cup of yogurt in her hand, waving him in with the other.

She mouths the words, "I'm bored! I have groceries! Come in!", but he never gets to take her up on her offer. Raph's hand collides with the back of his head, then wraps itself around the top edge of his carapace—yanking him backward.

"Get offa there! You'll give her nightmares! Where to fearless?"

Another deep breath. Leo looks back over his shoulder, the picture of contrition.

"The one place we swore on our honor we'd never go again."


	5. Distraction Pt 2

Distractions Pt. 2

Why even bother trying to read him? It was always the same. His tone…the steady beat of his heart. His words. He was such a base, _boring _man.

"This is _your_ project Sampson. This is _your _mistake. I will not have any of my operations compromised. Find her. Kill her. And retrieve the documents she has."

"It will be done, Master.", he whispered back into the receiver, mechanically, non-committal.

There was a slight intake of breath. His voice grew deeper, there was a harder edge to it. It could be one of two things. Either Karai had just walked in or some public official had come earlier than expected for a meeting.

"Remember Sampson. I do not tolerate failure."

_Click._

"Yes Master Shredder. I am aware."

He turned and pushed open the glass sliding door of the phone booth, stepping out onto the side walk where Peaches waited dutifully shivering in the icy wind. She turned to face him, smile in place. He didn't look happy.

She wracked her brain…thinking of something she could do. Some suggestion she could make as they strolled together down the slush covered streets. There were a lot of people out tonight. All kinds of people. Young and old,standing outside the little row of dive bars and flop houses. She watched him as they made their way looking from corner to corner at the evenings pickings, reading them. There are _all_ types. There's the punk type dressed in dark, tight fitting clothes..lots of make-up. There's the out of place ones. The ones who it's easy to tell don't belong. They dress too nicely—too formally for the type of places they're going into. Those are the ones he likes most. The insecure,undamaged ones.

"Sam…how about.."

She was hesitant to say anything. She never knew how he would react.

"Yes Peaches?"

"How about we go for a drink? That would please you…yes?"

She needed him to be calm. To be happy. If he wasn't he would take it out on her later.

Sampson focuses his eyes, looking over his Peaches head in the direction of Barnies. One of the largest places on the block. It was a dance club, three stories of pounding electro music and flashing lights. Right out front was someone he recognized. Allen of his hype men with his arms around a gaggle of very intoxicated looking women. He looked good. His blonde hair shone bright under the lighting. His blue eyes crinkled prettily with every smile, every false promise he whispered into their ears as he walked with them up and around the corner of the building—totally unnoticed by passersby.

He was doing his job. He was on point.

"Yes Peaches. I think stopping for a drink would be a fine idea. But not now. There's business I need to take care of first."

He meant The Foot. He would go to his men. The ones Shredder lent him. Peaches smile falters—she makes sure to look away so he can't see. She doesn't want him reading her. Guessing her thoughts and feelings. She couldn't wrap her head around it. It didn't make sense. She took all that money—all those jewels and snatched up a packet of papers and photos along with it. Photos and papers detailing the exchanges between her keeper, Shredder, and other men of note in the cities criminal underworld.

Minnie. She was a _stupid_ girl. Throwing away her happiness—her future- with both hands! It made her sick to her stomach to think of it. If it had been her—if _she'd_ been the one with a chance like that -.

"Peaches?"

She snaps her head up, forgetting to smile in her haste to be attentive. To please. Her surprised expression, intermingled with little traces here and there of what he suspects were thoughts of treachery brighten him.

"Peaches my dear!" He says wrapping an arm around her thin shoulders. Why didn't he think of it before? Peaches was perfect! The perfect study in the ways of the forlorn and the forgotten. He could just ask her. He was a master of the intricacies of the face. He could read anyone. Read _anything._ It was his talent. The ability to manipulate based on the unconscious queues given him by his enemies. It was the reason out of all the others Saki could have chosen for this particular bit of business he'd picked him.

"Yes?"

"What _would_ you do if you left me? Hm? Oh now don't start crying! I'm not going to hurt you! I'm just making conversation!"

His lips were pressed against her ear, tracing their way over a little scar she'd gotten years ago. The one he'd put there poking around with one of his knives.

Once upon a time his lips would've been a welcome thing. A memory flashes in her mind of her former self. A woman, a few years younger dressed in a tank and off the shoulder cardigan—black with grey speckles and blue jeans. She's lonely. Newly divorced and trying to get back into the dating scene at the urging of family members.

_What __**would**__ I do if I had the chance to leave?_

She thinks about it and an awful feeling bubbles up from inside her. She'd never really thought this deeply about what she would do if she could leave and the answer she arrives at isn't the one she expected of her-self.

"You would find me in no time." she says, looking up at her captor, almond shaped eyes swimming with tears.

"If I had the chance to leave…I would change nothing. Everything about my life would be the same as before. I would…just try to live like I used to."

Sampson plants a kiss on the nose of his Peach, and pulls her closer—turning on his heel toward the open door of the Skara Brae.

"Thank you Peaches! For that little piece of info I shall reward you! ! Coke n' Crown! Pina Co' for my lady here!"

* * *

Stupid.

"I can't take this anymooorree…"

Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid._

"Just shut up and _finish_!"

"I don't…I don't think I have any left. I think I might be-."

Karen's back arches. Her stomach contracts painfully pushing another foul tasting batch of bile up into her mouth. Minnie scoops up the handful of hairs that had managed to slip from her grip and pushes Karen's head farther into the bowl. Kelsey follows behind her a second later in the next stall.

The bathroom at Skara Brae's…like everything in her life lately…is an abysmal, dirty little hole complete with chipped floor tile and the smell of feces wafting through the air. Things used to be so different. Life didn't always used to feel like a never ending search. Once upon a time she'd been sure of where she was supposed to be-of what she was supposed to be doing.

"Karen…Kelsey _please_!"

How had they even gotten here? The plan had been to just hit the corner store for a six pack. Use her charm to get them to except a packet full of dirt on some dangerous criminals. The conversation went off topic after the third beer. That was when she'd stopped drinking and the fear had begun to set in. They'd posted up in a pool hall for an hour, per Minnie's suggestion wanting to wait until the buzz wore off and she'd pissed a couple of times-getting it all out of her system.

And then...

The door of Kelsey's stall slams open and she stumbles out toward the sinks, arms stretched out towards the napkin dispenser. Her skin is flushed and sticky with sweat. Her t-shirt sags on her thick frame, revealing the blue cheetah print bra she wears and other things Minnie's pretty sure if she were sober she'd be trying to keep hidden. She'd gotten to know Kesley a little. She wasn't all bad. A little crass. Kind of impulsive—but very smart. She hadn't fallen for the explanation Minnie had given as to how she'd come by the money.

She hadn't said so out loud of course, but you could see it in her eyes she didn't believe a word of it. They'd bonded somehow through that and then the shots started. It was only one she'd thought at the time. One shot for Kelsey. One for Karen. They'd still been in the pool hall. There wasn't anyone in there except for two old men playing a game and a regular at the bar. Some grungy wino the tender had told long before that he'd had his last. There was no danger then. They'd only been a block away from the shelter—an easy running distance for three, young, relatively healthy girls.

But then the one shot turned into two. Then three. Then four. Then five. The conversation never found its way back to point. All she could think about was how she was going to get them back to the shelter as drunk as they were—as sick as they'd gotten. Then Kelsey asked her for a dollar for the juke box. She and Karen had wanted to dance.

Karen is so sweet. So pretty. So impressionable.

It's hard to say no to someone with a face like hers.

"_How old are you?"_

"_Well…um…I'm 19."_

"_Why'd you lie cutie pie?"_

"_You wouldn't have brought me otherwise."_

Yes she would've. And she still would've bought her the drinks too. Because she was an idiot. A stupid fucking idiot. Now she was back again—in the same part of town she'd run from only five days ago standing in a stall holding an underage girls hair back while she up-chucks in the toilet.

Someone she knew was bound to be nearby. Another girl being held, or maybe her john. A lot of people knew what she looked like. Nobody wanted to be on the bad side of the Foot. If she was seen she'd be given up in a heartbeat.

Karen grips the sides of the bowl and pushes away, chin bumping over the seat. She sits up and leans back into Minnie's legs breathing hard. Behind her Kelsey wipes her face with a wet napkin and tries to fix her clothes. Maybe that's what she should try to get Karen to do. It might perk her up enough to walk out. Then maybe she can get some water for them from the bar.

Kelsey turns and presses her back up against the wall and looks at her. She's ready to go. As ready as she's going to get. Now for the young one.

Minnie wraps her arms around Karen's upper torso and helps her get to feet. The walk to the sink seems to take forever. The face washing doesn't go well. She slops water down the front of her shirt. She's talking but not making a lick of sense. Minnie assists her, at the same time wracking her brain for a good plan as to how to get out unnoticed. Skara Brae's is full to bursting out in the main room. There's people probably standing outside the back door too. People who'd see her and maybe know her. Someone that might follow and kill Kelsey. Kill Karen. Kill her.

She couldn't find it within her to be too worried about the dying part. It was the idea of dragging other people along with her that really hurt—_really_ affected her. But then hadn't that been the plan from the get go?

"Karen you have to try to walk a little steadier okay?"

"Tired. Mouth nasty.."

Kelsey ambles up behind her and takes an arm, helping Minnie to get her turned around facing the door. She seems okay. More than okay considering how much she drank.

She smiles, pushes strands of her hair out of her eyes and pokes out her lips in that funny way she has, showing off her piercing.

"Sorry 'bout all the puking. We didn't break the bank too much did we? Think anyone noticed we aren't in our beds?"

"Let's go." Minnie says, nodding curtly toward the door. Kelsey raises an eyebrow, pokes her lips out further, but asks no other questions.

When Minnie places her hand on the handle to pull the door open, she says, "The back is the best way…to make it out so no one sees. I've been here before. Bridge doesn't have back door guys."

Kelsey's sharp. Too sharp. It makes her nervous. It makes her scared. And without thinking about it she yanks the door open and surges forward into the crowd of men and women outside, Karen bumping around in between them, stumbling over every crack. She tries to move fast but it's impossible with the extra weight. Kelsey's trying to help but it isn't any good. There are too many people between them and the exit.

The smell of smoke, spilt drinks and cheap cologne permeates the air in the place. It seemed so much nicer a place to be an hour ago. Now it's just what it is. A crusty dive bar with heaps of equally as crusty rejects running around inside. The exit is close, very close and just as she's about to place her hand on it, a familiar face catches her eye through the crowd.

It's Peaches. And she's all dolled up in the finest duds money can buy. She's a joke. Sitting there with her bony little legs crossed—that smile on her face. All that gaudy jewelry draped around her wrinkled neck.

And she's looking right at her. She's holding Sampson's hand! He right there next to her!

"What are you waiting for girl?! Open the door!"

"Kelsey I'm sorry! I'm _so _sorry!"

The exit door opens. Tears stream down her face. Her throat aches with the need to sob aloud.

He looked. Just as she was pushing open the door—running out—he saw.

She was going to die. And so were Kelsey and Karen.


End file.
